


a White Blank Page (and a swelling rage)

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Smut, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2636156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In light of his own impending demise, Killian Jones questions his own worthiness. A post 4.08 angst piece. With some smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a White Blank Page (and a swelling rage)

**Author's Note:**

> i listened to "white blank page" by mumford & sons and started writing this. "can you lie next to her and give her your heart as well as your body" was the inspiration. oh, and i listened to "black" by pearl jam on repeat for writing the thing because i am wretched.

It is a curious thing, kissing Emma without the benefit of his heart. The movements are there and the feelings are there, but it is all dimmed, somehow; dulled and hazy, like remembering a delicious dream from which he was unceremoniously awakened and cannot get back to no matter how hard he pretends he is still asleep.

The biggest difference is that when she presses her body close to his, he no longer feels a quickening in his body, the way his heart would race every time she neared him. Sometimes he felt that the damned thing would burst from his chest each time she allowed herself to draw closer, and now that they had this new physical intimacy, it was as though he were in a constant state of urgency, of rapidity, of apoplexy, and it was all Emma-induced, love-fueled;  _glorious_ .

Curious, really, how one does not miss such things until they are, quite literally, ripped from the body.

He tried to steal away from the site of his impending demise with the damned hatbox under his jacket, but it seemed that the gods were not smiling on him, not this day and perhaps never again. Emma was waiting for him on the porch, her arm around Henry, happily chatting with Elsa. His eyes took in every aspect of her greedily, as though her image, her inner light were not already seared indelibly on and in every part of him.

Was that why his heart was so bright? He always assumed that the wretched thing would be black and without luster, dirtied like a bit of iron ore mined from the earth or in his more fanciful moments, a diamond before being cut and polished. But no, the thing was red and glowing, and now that he'd had a moment to process anything, he gazed upon this woman, this beacon he'd managed to not only find but to shine straight on him, and he realized that his heart looked that way because of  _her_ .

Pity how she would never know, really. Pity how his oldest friend held his heart—no, her heart;  _their_ heart—in the palm of his scaly, greasy grasp. His old Crocodile would crush the thing and that would crush Emma, and that she would never know what she had done to it would haunt him unto the end of his suddenly shortened, overly long life.

“Let's get out of here,” she said, her smile wide and full. He granted acquiescence, allowing her to slip her arm through the crook of his elbow, a sweet, gentlemanly nod to a time in his life from  _before—_ before he had become so tarnished.

He was mostly silent on the drive back to the Charming loft, merely murmuring agreements and offering empty smiles in response to the light-hearted banter coming from the three other occupants of the vehicle, the three who did not understand that Killian Jones was a doomed man. Perhaps that had always been the case. He would never know. All he could do now was... he was unsure, really. The man who always projected such a confident mien and assured speech, at a total loss. Will wonders never cease?

He must have been grimacing at his own musings for as Emma pulled in front of the building to the loft she put her hand on his arm.

“Hey. You sure everything's okay?” Her eyes full of watery concern nearly broke him. She was so happy, so light with her recent triumph despite the uncertainty in her countenance as she looked at him. He was downright proud of her for that, for finally accepting her magic. It was not lost on him that it was not he who brought it out in her; he the pirate, who had tried time and time again to help this damned stubborn woman, to make her see that she was it, she was the Savior, she was everything, especially to him. Time, time. Always, time was the issue. And now he had not enough of it; his unnaturally long life was finally coming to an close. His time had run out.

“Of course,” he said, his face automatically stretching into his insouciant smile. He did not have much, but that projected confidence was honed after so many ( _so_ many) years, and thankfully it worked in his favor this time. Her hand was still on his arm and as he reached for it to press a kiss into her skin, he noticed her other arm had a new token; a jaunty yellow bow tied into a ribbon. He smiled at the whimsy, fingering it as he leaned toward her.

“New adornment?” he asked, glad that it served as a distraction from her questions regarding his state of mind. Then her face fell and he could kick himself for erasing the happiness from her face.

“Yeah, about that,” she sighed, pulling away from him and turning back to face the road. He had barely noticed Henry and Elsa exiting the vehicle and saw that she was now headed in the direction of Granny's. “Let's get you back to your room, and I'll explain it there. It's... yeah.” A frown marred her brow and he wished to smooth and soothe it, to say the perfect thing, but he was not certain he was qualified for such  _heartfelt_ conversations anymore.

She accompanied him upstairs. They made quite the team, really—he morose and anxious, she silent and tense, absently fingering the bow on her wrist as he slipped the key into the lock. He swung the door wide, gesturing for her to enter first in a selfish bid to have her brush past him as she entered his room.

As he closed the door she turned to face him, that same look of worry on her face. Without preamble, she began her stilted explanation. She spoke of this new worry, that the Snow Queen seemed to have begun enacting her dastardly plans and that they included Emma and Elsa, that they could each feel a new sort of magical thrum in their veins, something that was putting a tether of some sort on her power.

He wanted to draw her in, to comfort and to soothe, to assure her that all would be well, that her newly found sense of magical confidence would win in the end. He knew it would, he had faith in it, in her magic winning, if not in his ability to make her believe. He tried it anyway, leaving out the part that it would likely be without his help, that he would be the worst thing for her. That maybe he always has been the worst thing, and that they ought break away from each other before he made things worse.

As her slim arms wrapped around him he took a deep breath, steadying himself. It nearly tore him asunder when he could feel the wild, erratic pounding of her heart against him, the rhythm reverberating in the empty walls of his chest. If only he were enough, then maybe her heart could beat for the two of them. If only he could figure out how to fix things. He needed the time to figure it out, but time was against them. If only they had the time!

He wanted to tell her that he loves her, to at least give her some sort of warm memory so that when she thinks on his betrayal for the rest of her life, at least she won't hate him as much, even if she cannot forgive him. He wants that much for her, at least. But it seemed terribly selfish of him to do that, so he does no such thing. Does not burden her with the love of a man who cannot feel the insistent thrum of love from a heart that is no longer his own.

He snaps back to the woman in his arms when her lips press into his neck. This is new, this is  _more_ , this is closer than she has allowed herself to be. He wishes he could truly feel it, wishes his veins were humming with the thrill of Emma initiating this new thing.

“Just one frickin' day,” she whispers into his neck, drawing her open mouth down, following the lines of his shoulder. “All I want is one day where I get something good and there's no horrible, awful follow-up.” She chuckles and he can tell that she almost feels amused, but it does not quite reach the tense set of her body, even as she melts into him that much more. It is horrible, he knows, but he wraps his arms tighter about her body, giving her this temporary comfort.

“You came to peace with your magic, love. Surely, that is cause for celebration of some sort?” He merely meant the words as comfort, for once not meaning to imply anything, but his mouth always did run afoul from his true intentions, just as his body was now able to run about without a heart. Her arms tightened, her hands roaming, touching new places on him, and how he hated himself in that moment, hated his enjoyment. Hated how his Swan was here in his arms, about to offer herself to him, and he was the least deserving blackguard of a pirate in the realm to stumble upon such treasure.

“Please,” she whispers into his skin, her hands low on his hips. “Please, I just need something good. I need to feel good.”

He knows what she is asking of him.

Generally, Killian Jones does not allow himself the things he wanted most, despite his constant search for more. He draws away from them, knowing he does not deserve them, does not deserve the happiness. But Emma Swan does not seem to allow that, constantly pressing into him and driving him mad, testing his resolve. This time is different from all the other times, however; he burns for her, as always, her soft, tentative touch followed by bold caresses causing ripples within, soft pulses of feeling that are not the beating of his heart but perhaps the thrumming of his soul, that small part of him that is still good and longs for release. But he cannot release that bit of him, he simply cannot. It is not enough. His deeds have long been too wrong, too false. Too steeped in villainy and piracy, too mired in deception and too drowned in a dozen lifetimes' worth of rum-guzzling. His heart may have been red and glowing, but his soul was dark and dim.

He cannot allow this. He must not be selfish.

Hook has to ask himself another question—is it possible to be selfless when one has no heart? He wants to chuckle at his own introspection in this moment, wondering if perhaps the dearth of that particular organ shunts activity to other, less important parts of his body like his brain, causing all of these thoughts to materialize at the most inopportune of moments. Can one truly make decisions that reflect no self-interest when the part of their body that tells them “yes” or “no” by pounding against the rib cage, by seething and churning blood throughout the body, causing that feeling of too tight or too much or not enough or  _never_ enough—can one do things for other people when the heart is not there to aid the decision-making process?

He decides on no. No, he is not capable of being selfless, heart or no. He will give himself this one last thing. He will be with her. He will give in to his own selfish longings; that it happens to coincide with what she wants is merely a matter of happy circumstance. This is what he tells himself as he looks upon her, her eyes searching his desperately, presumably looking for the answer she always seems to be seeking, this look of hers that tells him she is still unsure of what lies between them only now, lately, there has been the bloom of hope. How he hates to dash it before it can truly materialize. But he will. This time, he will allow it.

He tells himself this is for her, but he knows that to be a lie of the worst sort, the lie one tells to quiet the truth screaming from within. As he nods he can feel her move into him, her mouth growing insistent, her fingers dancing up his body to grip at the edges of his shirt and pulling down, revealing his chest to her.

If he had a heart, it would have stuttered when she pressed her lips just above it, but Killian Jones no longer has it. He feels a moment of panic that she will notice, will detect the absence of the heart that used to beat for her so he draws her head away, his hand soft and reverent as he holds her jaw and gazes into her eyes.

He hopes she remembers what the echo of love looks like, for he is quite certain his gaze is empty. Hers is lovely, watery with remnants of her own inner turmoil but also full of glistening emotion and determination. He brushes his lips against hers and when she pulls him closer to her body, he is gone.

He guides her toward his bed, grateful for his own meticulous sense of cleanliness that there are no wayward boots or books in the way for them to trip on for he is quite certain that he would not care, so hurried is he to make Emma feel good as she so kindly requested. He holds her at the waist with both hand and hook, his breathing heavy as he kisses her, his lips caressing hers over and over, marveling at the touch. He is full of wonderment that an act he had performed a thousand times over in his terribly long (now horrifically shortened) life could always be so new with her, that every time was as though it was his first kiss. That she could make him feel like a green boy, fresh from the farm, would forever astonish him. There was always something new to experience—some different sound from her throat, soft and muffled and hinting at more delicious sounds to come; a gasp here, a brush of her fingers there, some new way for him to breathe. Her hair is different from last time, the way she tastes different; the languorous sweep of her tongue slower than before, more like she is savoring him than desperate for affection. It was always new with Emma; he knew it would always be thus, were he granted the time.

He would have to make this memorable for her.

He lightly pushes her onto the edge of the bed, stepping back a moment to regard her flushed, aroused state. The heaving of her shoulders, the swollen pout of her mouth, the way she was unknowingly shifting her thighs together as he looked her up and down. Then she was smiling slyly, leaning back on her hands as she raked him with her eyes in return.

“You promised me fun, once upon a time. Remember?”

He remembered.

He nearly stopped the charade right then and there, but then she was pulling off her sweater and accompanying undergarment, then scrambling to undo her pants and honestly, he was no bastion of nobility to begin with. He felt himself go into a trance-like state, utterly hypnotized by the beautiful sight of Emma shucked of her clothing, near-naked and vulnerable and biting her own smile, her nose crinkling as if to say “well, this is it,” and he absolutely thrummed with it. He wanted to say a dozen things to assure her that she was a treasure, that she meant the world to him, that her granting this intimacy to an undeserving pirate was both misguided and wonderful.

He said none of it, of course. He thought it, however, as his body responded as if guided by the part of him that had seduced countless women, another thought that put him in a mind to walk away.

He did no such thing. Instead, he knelt at her feet in supplication, silently praying that she would forgive him for this eventually, one day when he was long gone, but for now he would simply give in to his own cravings and her trembling body.

Kisses, both reverent and profane, his mouth sullying the creamy, perfect flesh of her body. His hand following and deviating from the path of his mouth, noting every tremor, every swath of gooseflesh with each new touch. Every curve was explored, every gasp staying his movements to repeat them, to bring her the pleasure again and again.

When he got down to the final scrap of fabric covering her, he gave one last, desperate plea to himself to stop before it was too late, but his mind retorted that it was already too late. Selfish, selfish pirate. Always taking what he wanted without regard to the consequences of his actions.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, a poor substitute for "I love you," but it was all he had to give. He noted her smile before going in. If he could not love her with all his heart, the least he could do was worship her with his mouth.

Perhaps a whole man would have taken care with one such as her, but Killian had not been a whole man in some time, even less so now. That small scrap of fabric was ripped away by his hook, his hand rough as he caressed his way up her shapely legs. She parted her thighs when he got to the knee and it nearly did him in to look up and see her there, lust and impatience on her face, urging him on with the soft sway of her breasts, her breathing uneven and loud.

When he pressed a kiss directly onto her flesh she gasped and fell back, her wrists crossed and pressing into her eyes.

He continued, his mouth languid and lazy because his mind was determined to memorize every moment, to capture with clarity like those camera things only with sensation; the tensing of the muscles under his hand as he rested it just inside her thigh, holding her open so he could work; her swallowed gasps when he moved his tongue just so and then again and again, her hips pressing her closer and closer until he was near covered with her, reveling in the way he could bring her to the brink with barely any effort on his part and hating that it was so easy. This part always came so easy to him and since it clearly held such meaning for her, he outright loathed himself as he continued to love her. And he would continue to love her, as long as the Crocodile allowed it, anyway.

He forced away the errant thought, instead focusing on his love for her, using his thumb to sweep at her flesh and reveal more before gently drawing her into his mouth and between his teeth, his tongue alternately tapping and lapping, getting lost in the sensation of her as he nodded his head along to the thrumming in her veins. Once again, he marveled at this woman, this beautiful Savior permitting him such intimacy, and if there was a heart in his body, it would be racing along with hers.

When she was writhing above him and he could tell by the way her hand was tangling itself in his hair that she was near culmination he slowed a bit, wanting to give her the absolute best experience he could. He released her from his mouth on a gasp and she gasped as well, heaving as she looked down at him, her face a study in both beauty and incredulous fury.

“Why the fuck did you stop? Oh my God, that was incred—“

He went in again. And again. Relentless like the pirate he was. Broad strokes of his tongue eliciting delicious sounds from her throat followed by his lips closing around the most sensitive bit, sucking in, his eyes closing as he tried to even his own breathing, feeling himself edging closer to the point where he would need to be inside of her, but that would not happen. He could not allow that to happen.

Emma was at the edge of her own chasm, no longer worried about volume as she began to call out in demanding pleas to him, his name occasionally muttered but more often used as an invective, sometimes “Killian,” other times, “Hook,” but many “God”s and “fuck”s as well. To have his name uttered in such company was a dubious pleasure, but Killian was nothing if not a study in contrasts.

“Oh,  _there_ ,” she sighed, the tremulous beginnings of small death beginning, so he increased his assault and ignored his own threatening becoming, thrusting his tongue inside her again and again and then just as he felt her legs stiffen into what must be a painful, pleasurable tenseness, he opened his mouth wide, stretching his jaw to equal levels of pain. He scraped his teeth along the length of her, ending with a suckling assault on the most sensitive part, his own moaning competing with hers and she shook and jolted and cried out above and around him.

Utterly spent, Emma relaxed slowly, her body occasionally tensing as he brought her down slowly, kissing her softly, his fingers easing their grasp on her thigh. He gave one last lingering, thorough lick before pulling his neck back, a swaggering sort of satisfaction manifesting into his smug grin as he looked up at her, patiently waiting for the moment when she came to.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, and it was of small comfort to him that he was able to give that to her. He only wished he could give her more, but again. Borrowed time and all that.

“Indeed,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into her thigh before standing. He held his hand out to her, drawing her to standing. He leaned in to press his mouth to hers, hesitating a moment in case she did not wish for that sort of intimacy, considering what he had just done. As she reached for his face, pressing her lips to his, her mouth open, her tongue eager, he realized he should have known: his Swan did not hesitate once she's made up her mind. For whatever reason, she had made up her mind about him. Maybe he would be another life lesson for her: beware what you ask for.

“Your turn,” she said, pulling back and looking into his eyes. That small furrow appeared between her brows as she looked at him, that unspoken question again arising in her eyes.  _I am not enough_ , he told her silently.  _I never will be._

“Killian?”

“Not tonight, lass,” he said gently. He kissed the furrow away, giving in to the utterly selfish need to hold her close to his heart—metaphorically speaking, of course.

“But—“

“Another time,” he lied.

Another life, maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> erin, seriously. stop reading it.


End file.
